


Redamancy

by TheKnowingQueen



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Canon Compliant, Dark, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, On the Run, Points of View, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnowingQueen/pseuds/TheKnowingQueen
Summary: In which a bullet and a bomb teach each other that they are not cursed to kill.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rise and shine, soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baaah! I hope you enjoy! Lots of angst heading your way, loves. This is my first fic, so please tell me if there's any spelling/grammar errors. I triple check everything, but I seem to always miss something.

|2014|

"Sir, the chamber has reached room temperature." The doctor turns back towards his monitors meekly, avoiding eye contact altogether.

With a powerful, knowing grin tugging at his lips, Alexander Pierce turns to one of the many agents crowding the room, "Pull him out. Strap him down."

The door's wrenched open. The Asset, barely conscious, is hauled out and hurled crudely into the open for all to see. His head lulls gently as they chain him down, binding the Asset to the chair.

The surrounding agents take a step back, preparing themselves for the Asset's awakening. On cue, the metal cuffs shake, trembling as spasms tear through him. His chest heaves roughly. The air in the room grows thick as every agent looks on expectantly, waiting with bated breath.

The Asset yanks himself against the bindings, drowning the heavy silence in a loud, metallic clang that echoes off of stone walls.

Slowly, he lifts his head. With tightly knit brows and a dark scowl, his eyes frantically scan the room, taking in each new face, each new tool, each new piece of equipment.

Everything was so new, so overwhelming.

Alexander Pierce steps forward, a small, red notebook in his hands. The Asset lowers his head weakly, stringy, tangled hair falling to curtain around him. Pierce hums contentedly as he thumbs quickly through the pages. He clears his throat unceremoniously, looking over the words carefully once more. Then, his cold voice slicing through the air, he starts to read;

"желаниe."

"pжавый."

"семнадцать Девять Один."

The Asset, blinded by the slew of commands, involuntarily throws himself back into the chair, thrashing. Metal chains scraping against metal arm and digging deep into bare flesh.

"рассвет."

"Печь."

The Asset screams. A rasping, pained sound that rips out of his chest like a hopeless gasp for air.

"Доброкачественные."

"Возвращение домой."

The Asset goes completely still, his gaze trained forward. His weakened mind already beginning to clear before the final word is even said.

"грузовой вагон."

Alexander Pierce closes the notebook and approaches the Asset, an immense presence of gross, unjust power following him. Looking down at the chained animal, a hungry glint in his eyes, he asks, "Soldier?"

"Ready to comply."


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molecules and metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say here but; hi :) This one's probably the only prewritten chapter that I still can't tell if I love or not, but I don't know how else I'd fix it up. So, ya know, have it anyways.

MEANWHILE

Rose squeezed herself onto the busy subway, her phone clutched tight against her ear. She stumbled not-so-gracefully to the back, oblivious to the many glares and eye-rolls sent her way. Gripping tight to one of the poles, she swayed on the balls of her feet, a dopey grin inching across her face.

There were so many people to look at, to meet, to befriend. Across the car a mother and daughter chatted animatedly, a young boy blasted rap music whilst arguing with his girlfriend, and an old man was helplessly spilling the contents of his thermos onto the ground. Bright colored, cheery sloganed advertisement spreads lined the car; an ambiguous condom ad ironically placed right next to a generic diaper ad.

It was everything she had imagined it would be. It was perfect. This was America. Batshit crazy and not afraid to advertise it.

"Rose! Hey! Earth to Rosalina!" Annie piped up from the other end of the call.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm here. Just got distracted," Rose said sheepishly, the grin still plastered on her face. Her sister barked out a tired, but happy laugh. "Get your head out of clouds for a minute, would you? You're acting like this is your first time in America," Annie quipped, her accent subtle, yet still noticeable. Baby Tommy babbled excitedly in the background.

Rose rolled her eyes dramatically, because Annie simply didn't understand. This practically was her first time in America. She gazed out of the window, watching the world (which just so happened to also be the dingy brick walls of the metro tunnel) fly by. There was so much to see, to explore around her. She felt free.

"Okay, yes, but this is Washington, Annie! The capital of the country! My trip to your little farm in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Virginia doesn't have shit on this!" Rose replied matter of factly, her breezy chuckle trailing off like clouds moving across the sky.

The train had begun to slow, coming up on her stop. Rose shook herself from her gawking and mumbled a quick, "Subway's stopping, gotta go. Love you, Annie!" before ending the call and shoving her phone into her pocket.

After practically jumping out of the metro, Rose skipped up the steps and through the station, her backpack bumping in time with each movement. Bursting through the station doors onto the main street, she skidded to a halt, completely enraptured by the sights around her. Her eyes immediately locked onto the towering stone monolith just a short walk down the street. Glancing down to her little tourist map, she saw that she had exited from the Smithsonian Metro Station and was looking straight down the National Mall. Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as she sprinted across the street to get a better view.

Rose spent the day going from iconic American monument to iconic American monument. She took her time, letting herself bask in just how real all of it was. Her excitement and utter awe overthrew the guilt that had sat stoically in her heart for so long. This was her day. The first day in weeks that she actually had to herself. The whole experience was foreign to her; being somewhere completely new without her sister or father.

Traveling across the world had been quite lonely, she realized that morning on the plane, but she found some sort of unexpected comfort in it all.

 _I'll make friends here_ , she told herself in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Gazing up at the colossal statue, she puffed up her chest and jutted her chin out, trying to replicate his same air of importance.

"You believe in me, right, Mister President Lincoln?" she asked hopefully, pausing to wait patiently for an answer she obviously would not recieve.

She eventually doubled back, following the meticulously color coded roads on the map until she arrived at what would be her home for the next year. It was a small (and extremely run-down, however, she was too optimistic to admit that) apartment complex in the Mount Pleasant district, just a few minutes from downtown. Steering clear of the elevator, which had strips of fluorescent yellow caution tape crossed over the doors, she hiked up the three flights of stairs. Glancing to the apartment numbers as she walked past, she eventually arrived right in front of 312. After digging furiously through her backpack, she pulled her keys out and flung open the door.

It was the definition of "quaint". A simple studio layout with a bed, sofa, and an even smaller kitchen area. But it was her home. She was in a whole new place. All by herself. She was a whole ocean away from her horrible memories, and, for that, she would be forever grateful. She finally had the fresh start she'd been dreaming of, and maybe, just maybe, she would find some peace along the way.

First things first, however, her fridge was empty of course and she hadn't eaten since her airplane breakfast (which consisted of half a stale bagel and watered down apple juice). Turning easily on her heels, she sashayed out of her apartment.

Heading back into the heart of Washington, she wandered into a little hole in the wall cafe. It was packed with all different sorts of people; businessmen sporting fancy suits, groups of teenagers still donning their backpacks, and what seemed to be a motorcycle gang in matching leather jackets.

Rose was so busy shoveling salad into her mouth and innocently people-watching that she didn't realize the sudden silence that swept through the room.

A woman in a leather jacket, eyes locked on the television at the far side of the room, yelled out, "Hey! Turn it up!" The waitress fumbled with the remote, kicking the volume up at least twenty notches. It was then, with the volume blaring throughout the establishment, that Rose finally turned to see what was going on.

It was a local news channel, a big, red banner stretched across the bottom of the screen. In all capital letters, it read, "BREAKING NEWS". A curly haired news anchor was narrating frantically, but Rose was too distracted by the added shaky camera footage to listen.

The video was grainy, cell-phone quality, but Rose could still make out a group of people dressed in all dark colors slinging guns around as if they were toys. They were atop some sort of overpass, a large security truck blocking multiple lanes of traffic. In every direction cars were slamming on their breaks to avoid what seemed like a modern day showdown. And was that _Captain America_? Rose felt her fingers twitch, pressing themselves against the table's surface of their own accord.

Then she saw him. At first glance, he seemed like the others, all darkness and calculation. With the exception of what looked to be a plated, metal arm, matte black muzzle secured over his mouth like a silenced dog, and an ungodly pair of goggles banded around his eyes. All at once, she noticed how the others were all aiding him. Shoving guns in his direction as he signaled their next move. They moved like parts of a machine, shifting and rearranging themselves under his orders. It was as if they were his Posse of Danger, following his direction with a trained poise.

'His Background Dancers of Death,' Rose's mind mused grimly.

The video looped again. Rose watched intently as he pulled a steering wheel through a windshield with unsettling ease. A whole ass steering wheel. Straight through the windshield. Rose's mouth fell open. The entire cafe took a collective gasp, all fixated on the fight playing out before them.

On the other end of the room, the news program cut to live footage. The man with the metal arm was vaulting over the bridge's parapet, a deserted car breaking his fall as he stuck the landing. The cameraman shook as he ran for cover, yet kept the camera angled outward, refusing to abandon his livestream even over his own safety. Through the lens, Rose watched the man stalk out into the streets, loading his gun effortlessly. Barely taking time to aim, he fired. A police car down the street crashed against the curb, combusting with a loud hiss. Rose bowed her head, ripping her view from the television.

'God, I can't afford to do this,' she thought, both of her palms pressed firmly to the table, the vibrations already coursing through her fingertips. After a split-second of panicked indecision, Rose took a breath, trying her hardest to focus her energy into the earth, feeling the pull, searching for irregularities. Her mind lurched forward, the weight of all the molecules hitting her senses. The Earth around her hummed angrily, gripping and beating against her skull at the invasion. It was wrong, she knew that. She shouldn't have done it, she should've learned by now, but she was in too deep.

Glancing up to the television, she latched onto the explosion, trying to search all of everything for it. Asphalt, gases, metals, fabrics. All intertwining into the being of existence itself. There was so much, _so much_ to comb through. It burned at her senses, rioting against the access to molecular order that no one should ever have.

Her vision swam, the cafe blurring with the puzzle-like depiction of the street piecing itself together in her minds eye. Her ears buzzed, nothing but a high pitched ring was registering as her whole body went numb. As if fate itself finally laid its hand down, Rose found it; the rubber tires, curb concrete, burning metal, and the lingering flame from the explosion all funnelled into her grasp. Without hesitation, she zoned her focus into a rough radius surrounding the police car.

Rose clawed through the molecules as fast as comprehensively possible until she found what she assumed she was searching for. A rough stitching of tiny bits of existance where flesh shouldn't conventionally be meeting metal (Steel? Titanium? She couldn't tell). It was nothing like how she imagined a typical prosthetic should be, clean-cut, sized, and not made of dense, solid metal. This felt more like a terrible kindergarten arts and crafts project. Jagged edges forced around the bone carelessly, sharp points shoved right into muscle tissue. The metal seemed light enough, but still so compact that it threw off his center of balance. Rose didn't know what was going on or who he was, but something about that arm felt wrong.

Her power hitched like a stuttered sentence. Inhaling raggedly, Rose locked onto him, letting the energy of his being pour into her mind. Never had she been able to alter energies themselves the way she could tangible things, but she could still feel them floating around her, pouring off every person, animal, entity. And his? His were wrong. Just like the arm. Could energy even be wrong? It didn't make sense. It was a wreckage electricity as if he were fragmented into multiple little sparks that couldn't ignite. And there was a dull ache, well, it truly wasn't really an ache at all. It was more of a dull nothing, because that's what the energy was screaming at her; Nothing. Nothing but chaos and metal. How could one person have so much _nothingness_?

Rose swallowed through the lump that had formed in her throat, her vision began to flicker. The water in her glass had slowly started to freeze, the molecules easing themselves to a reluctant stop. Something warm was dripping from her nose. The sheer force of her power was seeping out as it broke free from her control. She was slipping, everything was trickling out of her reach. She knew this would happen and yet she had done it anyways.

'Oh no, shit. No. No, no, no.' Rose clamped her eyes shut, focusing everything she had into pulling herself out of the molecular hole she'd dug. Control. She needed any semblance of control she could muster. Her mind tugged, seeming as if it were pulling in each different direction like a ball of putty, slamming recklessly against her skull. In the last second before everything would spiral away from her, the familiar snap resounded, sending her gasping for air. It was over. She was okay, but that wasn't what mattered.

"Holy fuck, what the hell?" One of the business men called out, reaching his fingers up to dab at the blood streaming from his nose. Rose whipped her head around, analyzing the other patrons in the cafe. Everyone followed the business man's motion, finding the same phenomena happening to themselves. It wasn't good, no, it was so far from good. But they were alive. They all gaped at eachother, confused and completely unaware of what Rose had done. That was fine, perfect actually, because they would be okay. They were all alive. Rose heaved a heavy sigh, slouching against the cafe chair. She pulled a napkin up to her own nose.

The newscast barrelled on, not so much as stopping to give them all a second to recollect. _That was definitely Captain America. Were they calling him a criminal now? Nick Fury was dead? What the hell was going on?_ She watched in horror as Captain America and the man with the metal arm fought, flinging each other across the street with inexplicable force and fury. Metal Arm Man turned sharply, his eyes unguarded, exposed, the goggles probably discarded somewhere amidst the frenzy. His ice cold eyes bored into the camera. Without so much as blinking, he lifted his gun and pulled the trigger, shooting out the recording. The screen fell to black before the narrating anchor reappeared, disheveled and shaking.

One of the teenagers piped up from across the shop, with her arms crossed and brows sewn together, "Okay, guys. What the ever loving fuck is going on?"

'Yeah, guys. What the ever loving fuck is going on?' Rose's mind couldn't help but echo.

And, of course, no one had an answer.


	3. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The helicarrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love a good Winter Soldier POV chapter. Get ready, every Bucky/soldier POV chap is gonna be emotionally painful, my apologies. :-)

"People are gonna die, Buck," he says, "I can't let that happen."

Nothing.

"Please don't make me do this," he says.

His words meant nothing.

The enemy threw his shield.   
Blocked easily. Grabbed gun. Fired.

 _Complete the mission. Complete the mission._ _Complete the mission_.

Attempted to disarm him. Failed.  
Attempted to disarm him again. Failed again.

Shoved over the railing. Falling.

Regained composure.

_Keep fighting._   
_Complete the mission._

Flipped over. Wasn't aware of the enemy's proximity. Foolish. Resulted in a kick to the jaw. Foolish.

Falling again. Crashed to the floor.

The shield was discarded. Reached for it. Flung it. Struck the enemy. A distraction. Used spare time to aim. Fired.

Unsuccessful.

Rushed him. Stabbed him. Unsuccessful.

The enemy grabbed for metal arm. Twisted sharply. It snapped. It hurt.

Enemy's hand shot upwards. Choking.  
He didn't let go.  
Couldn't breathe.

Flung into darkness; whole and deep and peaceful. Dead? _Finally_. 

No. Alive. Unconcious.

_Get up. Get up. Complete the mission._

Gasped for air. Came to. Whole body shook. It all hurt.

Gripped gun. Aimed.

_Steady._

Fired.

Fired again. Successful.  
Fired again. Enemy crumpled.

_Mission complete._

Hellfire. Rising towards the sky, burning and bright.

_No._

Failed. _Failed._ Helicarrier went up in flames.

The infrastructure was melting. Ceiling toppled down. 

Didn't move. Could have moved. Didn't.

Trapped. Alive. Trapped underneath.

_Get out. Get out. Can't get out._

_Help._

The enemy lifted the beam. The enemy should not be helping. The enemy should not care.

"You know me," he says.

Wrong. He was wrong. A weapon knows no one.

"No, I _don't_!" Swung arm. Made contact with his shield. Enemy staggered back.

"Bucky-" he says.

_Bucky, Bucky... Bucky?_

-"you've known me your whole life."

Wrong. A lie. A distraction tactic. Swung arm again. Connected with his jaw. Enemy spat blood, completely unphased.

"Your name," he says, "is James Buchanan Barnes."

 _Liar. He is lying._ I do not have a name. _Make him stop. Make him_ **stop** _._

"Shut up!" Swung arm again.

"I'm not gonna fight you," he says. He drops his shield. It falls. Gone. Sunk into the water. The enemy is defenseless. Foolish.

 _Enemy open. Kill the enemy._  
 _Complete the mission_.

"You're my friend," he says.

_Weapons do not have friends._

The enemy is defenseless. Vulnerable. Tackled him.

_Complete the mission. Complete the mission. C_ _omplete the damn mission._

"You're my mission." Reeled arm back. Punched.

_Complete the mission_ _._

"You're," swung.  
"My," swung.  
"MISSION," swung.

The enemy was overpowered. A success.

_The man on the bridge-_

"Then finish it," he says.  
"'Cause I'm with you till the end of the line."

Floor shattered. He plummeted. Down, down, down.

_Till the_ _end of_ _the line._

He hit the water.

_Till_ _the end_ _..._

He sunk.

_... o_ _f the line._

_He was the man on the bridge. I knew him._

The water was cold.   
Reached for him.  
Hauled him out. Safe, alive.

Couldn't stay. Didn't deserve to stay. Had to leave.

Left him on the shore. Safe, alive.


	4. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Smithsonian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye, yet another chapter thrown at ya. This is just a little bit of wholesomeness before the next chapter that physically pained me to write. God, I love emotionally-complex Bucky Barnes.

Rose's first month in Washington had been one of the most hectic times of her life. Not only was she trying her very hardest to immerse herself in the culture and lifestyle that surrounded her, but she was also juggling working at the bakery with college. And that's completely ignoring the rollercoaster that was only her first week. Following what seemed to be the downfall of SHIELD, the city was practically shut down as Captain America scoured for those responsible.

After seeing the uproar a lone Avenger had caused over SHIELD, Rose couldn't help but be especially glad that she hadn't taken Fury's offer. She hadn't, and never would, deserve it.

The city itself, however, wasn't racked with fear unlike Rose. Security was heightened all around them, yet they moved on, continuing their routines as if they had seen this all before.

The man with the metal arm became an illusive figure after that, something of a ghost story. News sources were spouting fake sightings of him all over the country. One day he'd been in Georgia, the next Alaska.

Basically, Rose came to the conclusion that not only had she crossed the pond at quite possibly the worst time _ever_ , but she might just be a bad luck charm. She brushed that thought off, though, and threw herself into her work.

That being said, she was able to finally make a friend. Her coworker, Betty, became her saving grace. Taking her out clubbing ( _clubbing!_ Like an _actual adult!_ ) a couple of times and giving her the "Tour to Defeat All Tours" of Washington. Betty, a D.C. native, was a sweetheart, much more of a social butterfly than Rose, and better at baking than Rose could've ever expected. The pair of them were constantly staying at the bakery after hours, hellbent on testing new recipes to run by their boss, D.C.-notorious baker Mandy Lee. They were both quite proud to say that one of their concoctions had actually been approved and sent into the weekly rotation.

And, by the tail-end of that first month, Rose had begun to settle into a comfortable routine. Overlooking that first week, everything else seemed to be going so amazingly amazing. Until the panic came back, easing back into her mind like an old friend.

In truth, that first month should fittingly be known as the 'How-Many-Things-Can-Rose-Do-to-Avoid-Thinking-About-How-Bad-She-Fucked-Up Month.' She fought against the feeling each time it cropped up, that flooding feeling as if a force of a thousand waves were rushing overhead, and somehow she had forgotten how to swim. She would have to stop whatever she was doing and take a moment to remind herself that it _wasn't her fault_. She tried and failed to truly believe it, because it _was_ completely her fault. No matter her original heroic intentions. No matter that she was still held a hero back home.

* * *

Rose shuffled her stack of notes (less "notes", more doodles and recipe ideas) from her American History 307 class, stuffing them lazily into her backpack. Rising from her little table at the bakery, she called lovingly to Betty working the sales counter, "I'll see you later, B!"

Rose's back already to her, Betty exclaimed, "Don't be late for your shift! I am _not_ doing Dessert Hour alone, Rosalina!"

Rose couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of Betty commanding the shop all by herself again. Dessert Hour, as they had deemed it, was seven o'clock. Right after dinner when, apparently, the entire city would collectively decide that it was time for baked goods. Rose had come in an hour late to her shift one night, just after the brunt of Dessert Hour, to Betty frazzled beyond belief and yelling back at the customers to "pay for the damn cupcakes" or "kiss her ass". Betty endearingly blamed it on Rose and hadn't let her live it down since.

Rose waved her off nonchalantly and bounded out of the shop. She cut across the street, her brunette bob swaying as she went. Taking the quick walk down 12th Street, she happily skidded to a stop in front of the Smithsonian Museum of American History. The perfect place to be, she thought. Especially after zoning out during her video lecture and taking the exact opposite of helpful notes.

She'd been to the museum a handful of times over the course of the month. In all honesty, she could probably recite each digitized-tour guide spiel word for word, yet she still kept going back. The museum was usually a nice solace from the bustling world outside (unless there was a school trip, then it was simply a legalized cesspool of germs), and besides, it was way more entertaining than listening to her professor lecture on and on and _on._

She pushed the doors open and waltzed in. Stopping only to wave to Fred, a nice, elderly man who was almost always working behind the information desk.

Her first stop was the early 60s exhibit. Most of the display consisted of tidbits about hippies and the Vietnam war. It was still one of her favorites to explore, though. What with the protests and upset against the previous decade's conservatism. Not to mention they had some pretty cool cars on display. That's not to say Rose was much of a car person or anything. Driving really wasn't her schtick. That's just the nice way her family would describe it instead of being brutally honest. Rose was well aware that she could operate a vehicle like a dementia-ridden grandpa that happened to also be both blind and deaf. But she could appreciate a cool 60s car when she saw one.

Soon enough she rounded the halls, passing breezily into the Captain America exhibit. Reds, whites, and blues covered just about every object there. Separate audio interfaces were scattered throughout, all droning on about Captain America and the Howling Commandos.

Taking a brief look around, she noticed the room was almost desolate, only a few midday visitors were wandering about. Rose made a beeline to, in her personal opinion, the best part of the whole exhibit.

It was a wide-spanning wall; spotlights situated just right, giving off a gentle glow. A meticulously painted mural of the Howling Commandos stared down at her. Captain America, of course, was front and center, the others stood confidently around him. A platform jutted a few feet out, arranged with a number of mannequins. One for each Commando. They were all dressed nicely in their original uniforms, maintained and cleaned carefully to the point where it looked almost as if they hadn't been worn at all. The only unusual difference, however, was that the center mannequin was bare. Standing buck naked, only clutching the age-old, flag patterned wooden shield.

Having basked long enough, Rose turned, knowing exactly what part of the exhibit she would go to next. With a sense of purpose only Rose could possess, she strode across the room towards the shimmering, engraved glass panel. Just as she came to an easy stop next to a man already examining the display, the audio recording looped back from the beginning.

"Best friends since childhood-" 

Her eyes studied the picture etched into the glass for the millionth time as the recording played on. He was one of the world-famous Commandos. With dark hair and a set of dog tags hanging around his neck, he was gazing past the camera, bottom lip pushed out just a bit. And it was the same solemn, distant look in his eyes that made Rose wonder just what he had been thinking about. The war, maybe? Going home? Probably both.

"-Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield." She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips, an involuntary action that seemed to happen when she imagined a simple, joyful scene. Like how she could picture a miniature, scrawnier version of Captain America running along the streets of Brooklyn with his best friend.

"Barnes is the only known Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country," the recording finished. The same ending as always. Rose had wished that somehow it would end differently, something other than an unfair tragedy, but that was war, wasn't it?

Then, before she had a chance to stop it, Rose was speaking out loud, more to herself than to the man beside her. Brows furrowed in thought, staring at the picture of the young Commando, she said softly, "I wonder what he was thinking about." 

The man beside her let out a quiet, confused, "Huh?" His voice was smooth, yet hoarse all at the same time. An odd but charming combination kind of like honey trickling down cracked porcelain.

Rose, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, gaze still trained on the portrait, added smoothly, "In this picture..." She reached out and tapped her fingers softly against the glass. "I just get the feeling he was thinking about something meaningful, you know?"

He hummed a soft response, the kind of sound Rose was all too familiar with considering it was one of her own staple responses. A light, seemingly distant note that used to have Annie rolling her eyes, flabbergasted, and restarting her story for the third time.

Rose was about to wander off, assuming he was much too busy with his own thoughts when she finally glanced back to him. He was hunkered over a worn-looking notebook, his pencil tracing carefully across the page as he wrote. The brim of his baseball cap hung low, shielding his face from view. Rose's goofy, uncontrollable grin returned, sneaking unconsciously across her face.

Not wanting to disrupt his quite diligent work, Rose let her feet carry her away.


	5. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't mean to and he didn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> put your hands up if bucky is getting you thru quarantine cuz like bitch me tf too

_Faces. There were so many faces. Young and old, male and female_ _and everything in between_. _Too big smiles stretched across bloody red lips._ _All too still, much, much too still. Their features all blurring together. The hoard of them swirled, going round and round like some terrifying, gut-wrenching carousel gone horribly wrong._

_A jazzy tune started up from somewhere far away and suddenly it felt like an old dance hall. Trumpets and saxophones blaring down from every angle. Untraceable, omnipresent, and Glenn Miller._

_The wonderful melody cut, drowned out by the disgusting symphony of heavy gunfire. The battlefield stretched out for miles, clusters of trees and lifeless soldiers scattered before him._

_Then the bullets started raining down, clanking hard against the side of the train._

_But no, he wasn't being shot at. No, he was the one_ _shooting_. _He didn't want to fight. The faces were coming back, swarming his vision, circling. Round and round once more._

_It_ _was cold. Terribly, bone-chillingly cold. A shield clutched in his hands. A gun pointed his way. Cocked and triggered._

_And then he was falling._

_Down, down, down._

* * *

He woke with a start, his heart speeding up into his throat. The cold still clawed at his chest, sending horrible shivers dancing across his skin. All of the faces swam in his minds eye, too many to differentiate. And there he was. Right in the middle of them all.

He tried to ground himself, reaching for a notebook to scribble into, but his thoughts weren't coherent. He'd lost himself somewhere along the way and he couldn't pull himself back. His real arm shook, gripping the pencil with far too much strength. Every word, every letter appeared more misshapen than the last. Each stroke of his pencil more violent than the last. He couldn't even tell _what_ he was writing, the only thing carrying any certainty was the familiar, gliding movement of pencil on paper. His grip tightened even more in his frenzy, clinging to the realness of the wood, to the words he knew he had to be writing.

But then the pencil snapped. Breaking in half under his grip, the wood splintering in between his fingers. His sentence left unfinished, a smudge of graphite smeared across the page in its place.

He broke it. Oh God, he broke it and it was all his fault. If he could've just been _gentler._ If he could've had more _control._

" _No,_ " he whispered deliriously, his voice hoarse and dry, cracking roughly over the single syllable.

He stared unblinkingly down at the broken pieces cradled in his hand. The notebook sat open in his lap. Each word peered up at him, shaming him relentlessly.

_"Didn't mean to. Didn't want to. Didn't mean to. Didn't want to. I'm sorry. Didn't want to. Didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I didn't want to. I didn't mean to. I didn't_ _want_ _to_ _._   
_I am only a weapon._   
_I didn't mean to. Didn't mean to. Didn't want to. Didn't want to. Didn't mean to. Didn't want to. I'm so sor"_

Slamming his teeth down on his bottom lip, he scooped the book up and furiously hurled it across the room. It thudded dully against the wall, falling faceup on the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he made the conscious effort to tuck the broken pencil pieces carefully into his pants pocket.

He needed to leave, to get out of the building. He couldn't stay inside. He needed a distraction. If he let his thoughts run free for too long they would claim stake under his skin. And his own mind was relentless, telling him that They were going to find him. They would make him into a soldier again, because They always did. It terrified him. _Not again_ , he thought. He couldn't be Theirs again.

He didn't want to be a weapon anymore.

But, despite the strangling need to get out, he hesitated to leave his apartment. His mind screamed in protest at the proposition of merely going for a walk. He was dangerous. They were waiting for him. And They would lay waste to the whole city if it meant getting Their weapon back.

The very first day of freedom, when he still didn't quite understand what freedom meant, he'd decided it wasn't safe to be out on such busy streets. He didn't trust himself around that many innocent people. He'd hurt them. It was safer to be locked away.

A few weeks later he made one single exception to that rule; the museum. He'd let himself out occasionally to visit the Smithsonian. They had pictures of him there. Or pictures of what he _thought_ was him. It was a different him that lived at the museum, though. A man illuminated by spotlights and immortalized as a hero. It was a him that he could barely remember being no matter how many plaques he read.

Every other outing occurred during the dead of night, shrouded in its darkness.

But he was hungry. Frustrated, terrified, and _starving_. There was no chance he would fall back to sleep, even if he could, he didn't want to. The nightmares would only come back. All of the terrible things he'd done playing out like a disgusting film that only he could watch.

His fridge, stained yellow with something brown creeping from the icebox, was empty. He knew that. The past month's rations had consisted of Kit-Kat bars and Oreos, a sleeve of Ritz crackers if he was lucky. All snacks that somehow felt nostalgic to him, but he couldn't remember _why_.

His head was pounding hard against his skull while his real hand still quivered from panic. The walls around him were already small and seemingly getting closer to him with each passing second. 

_I need to leave. I can't breathe. I need air. I need to leave._

Shoving a glove over his metal hand, he shrugged a jacket on over his shoulders. He stooped low to pick up his notebook before leaving through the fire escape, both halves of the broken pencil stored away and weighing heavily in his pocket.

He didn't know where to go, but he needed quiet, comfort. Away from the eyes of the general D.C. public. Someplace where he could sit and pretend he deserved to be alive.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point where I run out of pre-writes. It'll be a minute until the next part, but it'll happen. I swear.

"What class are you even working on now?" Betty asked dubiously, squinting through the display case glass as she lazily arranged a batch of freshly baked matcha cupcakes.

It was just after the lunch rush, well before Dessert Hour, and so the bakery was completely empty. Rose sat just a few feet away working diligently, stacks of paper strewn haphazardly around her tiny table. She was in the same patchwork cardigan and sweatpants she'd slept in the night before and nestled behind her ear sat a pencil that she'd surely forget was there.

Not even looking up from her computer screen, she responded matter-of-factly with, "Actually I'm looking at kinky Kermit/Miss Piggy fan art."

Making vehement gagging noises, Betty catapulted a rock-hard croissant straight for Rose's head.

" _Ow_! Jesus Christ, B!" Rose yelped, reaching up to rub the back of her head.

"That's what you get for being nasty _and_ ignoring my question," Betty snorted, "I don't make the rules."

"If you must know; I'm emailing my sister to proof-read my Public Histories paper, thank _God_." This was the exact paper Rose had been typing up fiercely for the previous 72 hours. The dark circles under her eyes only attested to her three days powered by caffeine, granola bars, and pure rage.

Betty popped up from her spot behind the case, eyebrows raised, "So you're done with homework for the day?"

"Yes," Rose answered skeptically, pushing her glasses back up her nose, "Why?"

Betty shot her a nervous grin and overly ecstatic finger guns, all the signature tell-tale signs. She didn't even need to explain before Rose had put the pieces together.

"Well, ya see, Charlie wanted to take me out-"

"Oh my _god_ , Betty. On my day off!" Rose interjected, rolling her eyes but laughing nonetheless.

"He said he had a surprise for me!" Betty exclaimed apologetically, "How could I turn that down?"

Rose immediately pointed accusatorily at Betty, "If this so-called 'surprise' is another bottle of soda-flavored lube, you'll have to buy me lunch for a month."

"The Sprite one was actually okay, though! The root beer one, not so much..." she clapped her hands together pleadingly, "please cover my shift, Rosie! You only have to stay until Carson clocks in!"

"Fine, fine, but only because the free lunches are going to be a blessing."

Betty hopped the counter and pulled Rose up and into a big bear hug. "Gah! You're the best!" With a big kiss to Rose's cheek, Betty went sprinting to the break room.

* * *

Somehow Betty managed to look _amazing_ after only 15 minutes spent hurrying around the café. Her blonde hair flowed behind her and down the back of the lace dress Rose had given her after the website sent her the completely wrong size. The easy, princess-like elegance Betty seemed to constantly radiate tampered Rose's own confidence. She never was the jealous type, and she wasn't even truly jealous of her best friend; in fact, she was happy for her. Rose just wished for the same air of unabashed confidence, something that she felt had been brutally stomped out of her after the accident.

Now the cafe was silent. Just Rose with her thoughts and the quiet stream of lovingly hand-picked Paul Simon songs that played through the speakers. It was the first thing she did after Betty left, bolting to the back of the shop and switching the cafe's MP3 player out for her own phone. She wasn't _technically_ supposed to do that, but if she had to hear Sia sing about that damned chandelier one more time she would vomit.

Rose hefted the now-full watering can out of the sink, dancing her way out from behind the counter to go water the shop's many, _many_ plants. She was so invested in her task, her music, and her dancing that she didn't notice the front door opening until the shriek of a passing police siren poured in, drowning out her favorite song.

Taking a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw a lone man walking in with his head ducked down. Rose would have normally found that extremely suspicious when working the shop alone, but the rest of his body sagged tiredly and read practically anything except mal intent.

"I'll be with you in a sec, love!" She called out, determined to finish watering the rest of the ferns.

He stayed silent as she rounded back behind the counter, dropping the brachiosaurus-shaped watering can on top of the display case. He was looking up at the price board intently, his fingers fidgeting mindlessly at the worn corner of his notebook.

"Sorry about the wait! What can I get you?" Rose asked enthusiastically, already prepped to type in his order.

When he started to speak all he could manage were quiet stutters, but Rose waited patiently, letting him take his time. She'd always found it insulting when strangers would cut into her own stutters; she knew she could _say it_ , but they'd never give her the time. She hadn't encountered that issue in a while, seeing as she'd rarely stumbled over her words since she had moved to D.C. He looked down at her, gaze leaving the menu to meet her eyes, his own were dejected and pleading. She took that as the signal that he would like her to cut in, to save him from the stammering.

"Well," she started, keeping it as breezy as she would with any other customer, "today's special is Matcha cupcakes, but my favorite's always been the plain vanilla with Lucky Charms frosting. If you're looking for something a little less cavity-inducing I'd recommend the pretzel bagel. If I could marry the garlic sauce that comes with it I would put a ring on that damn bagel faster than you can say _garlic_."

A hint of a smile crossed his lips at that. He thought on it for a minute, biting absent-mindedly at his thumbnail. "What's a," he paused briefly, clearly confused, "matcha? Or-" his gaze flicked back to the menu, "a 'lucky charm'?" Rose practically choked on her own spit, her jaw dropped in shock.

"Do you live under a rock?" she asked incredulously. Not realizing how rude it sounded until _after_ she had already spoken it into existence. 

He laughed softly, a melodically sweet sound, "Something like that."

Rose picked her jaw up off the floor, still partially recovering from the initial jolt. "I'm so sorry, that sounded a lot less rude in my head." He waved off her apology, clearly not bothered by her comment at all.

Rose went on, "Matcha's basically green tea powder," he nodded, humming his understanding, "and Lucky Charms is one of those aggressively sugary cereals." 

He stood there, processing for a moment before decisively saying, "I think I'll stick to a plain muffin and water." 

"Can do!" Rose grinned, punching in his order as he handed her a few crumpled dollar bills. She shuffled around in the display case to get his muffin and handed him a cup for water. By the time he had gotten himself situated at a table, Rose was already back to diligently watering the rest of the plants.

•

Bucky had finished his snack in mere seconds, scarfing it down with a particular intensity. He ignored how he was still starving badly, but he had no more cash. The muffin had been the cheapest item on the menu.

He kept his head down as he scribbled in his notebook with the sharpened half of his broken pencil. Her eyes were on him, he could tell. They had been for the last two minutes. His shoulders tensed. _Maybe she's undercover._ _She knows, doesn't she?_ His head spun dizzyingly. He shouldn't have left his apartment.

Then she was walking towards him, her shoes tapping against the tile with each step, the purple dinosaur watering can hung loosely in her hands.

"Would you like a new pencil? That one's looking a bit sad." _So, she wasn't undercover._ Bucky couldn't help but sigh in relief, shoulders dropping on the exhale. She turned around, scanning the shop as she patted at her apron pockets, "I know I had one somewhere..." It was in her hair, sitting idly behind her ear. Bucky had noticed it as she was taking his order, an ingrained habit that had his mind scoping for threats at all times. Bucky opened his mouth, about to point it out, when she reached up to find it herself, "Aha! There it is!" Her face lit up with joy, honeyed eyes sparkling as she held it out to him. She had a beautiful accent. It wasn't quite Russian nor was it Spanish. He wished he could place it, but he knew too many languages, and they had all started to blend together in his mind.

He accepted it with a small grin and a mumbled, "Thank you."

She had turned to go back towards the counter when, all of a sudden, she whipped back around, a certain seriousness had washed over her previously happy expression. _She_ is _undercover. Fuck. Of course she would be; of all people._

"What kind of music do you like?" She asked, her lips scrunching to one side. Bucky sputtered, having been ready for her to expose him for who he truly was. Not ask him about his taste in music. What even _was_ his taste in music? He hadn't chosen a song of his own free will since... The 40s? Part of him wanted to say Glen Miller, who he could still make out through the hazy fog that was his old life. But, having remembered his nightmare, he knew hearing the static trumpet play would only lead to throat-clenching panic.

"I don't want to make any assumptions. You _look_ like an alt guy, but," she stopped to wave the empty dinosaur can around, "if I know anything, it's that you can _never_ guess someone's music taste."

"Etta James," Bucky said, gaze faltering back to his pages and the new pencil in his hand.

She huffed in surprise, "Jazz, huh? See, I would have never guessed that! Give me a minute." And with that, she waltzed off towards the back of the shop, setting the can on the floor as she went. Just a moment later Bucky heard the start of 'Stormy Weather' kick up, raining easily into the quiet cafe from somewhere up above.

When she came back her arms were held up, swaying gracefully to the song. "Good choice!" She called out from behind the counter where she began to clean off the coffee makers, the gentle rock of her arms transitioning instead to her hips while she worked.

Bucky didn't know what had happened. He felt like he was in some sort of trance. That should have been horrific, he'd had too much experience with trances. But he felt _normal_. Like he was just another guy grabbing a midday snack. His mind, normally swirling and dark and disturbing, had silenced since the time that he'd stepped foot inside Baker S'Treat.

When had it all gone quiet? 


End file.
